Love Too Late
by Scribe Teradia
Summary: Hermione discovers she loves Harry... after he's dead. Does she really need his ghost to protect her? Started after book five, does not take book six into account.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything Harry Potter. He belongs to J.K. Rowling, whom I heartily thank for having created him. I just happen to have been knocked in the head by my muse one evening, and took it upon myself to write this bit of fiction based on the characters she created.

**Author's Note:** I've never written fanfiction before, so you'll have to bear with me. It's rated R for language and possible violence in later chapters, and because at this point I really don't know where exactly the story is going to go. At the moment, I'm letting inspiration guide my hand, though I suspect it's going to take some help. This piece was begun before Book 6 came out, and I've decided not to let that volume influence my take on events as I have them written here. Also, I'd like to thank, in advance, all my online friends who I'm going to pester into reading this, as well as those people I'll more than likely turn to for help when my muse deserts me. And, of course, my husband, who has always been my biggest fan as well as my most honest critic. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I'm going to try, very hard, not to disappoint.

**Prologue**

Harry Potter was dead.

That was my thought as I watched the coffin descend into the hole that had been prepared for it, although I still didn't know why they had bothered with a coffin. There hadn't been anything left, of him or Voldemort, and the empty coffin seemed an unnecessary gesture. A memorial service would have done just as well, but then perhaps the coffin was to remind us, all of us, that he was really gone. Forever.

Dumbledore had spoken at the funeral, and he was the first to drop a white rose onto the empty coffin, followed by a handful of dirt. He looked old, older than I ever remembered him looking, or maybe it was just my own grief that put extra lines in his face, comparing him to happier memories. Ron was next, Harry's best friend, and he gave my hand a reassuring squeeze before repeating the actions the Headmaster had just performed. He was pale, and his freckles stood out against the whiteness of his skin, making him look as though someone had gone berserk with an orange marker on his face. The notion struck me as funny, but my grief was too deep for the humor to make more than a dent.

We were all grieving, even those who hadn't known Harry all that well. As I stepped up to the grave, I happened to look up, and was surprised by the sheer number of people who had turned up for the burial. More than had come to the funeral, it seemed, but it was hard to tell. He'd touched so very many people. It was still hard to believe he and Voldemort had killed each other, but then the funeral, the burial of the empty coffin, was enough to remind us all that the worst had happened, Harry Potter was really dead.

I must have been crying, though I don't remember doing so, because the next thing I knew Ron was looking down at me with his grief-stricken eyes and offering me a tissue. "Are you all right, Hermione?" he asked, concerned, and I was aware that I was staring at him, with what I imagined was a rather stupid expression.

"Thank you, Ron," was what I replied, taking the tissue and using it to dab at my eyes, though I'm not sure it helped in the slightest. "How are _you_ holding up?" I really didn't want to discuss my own emotional state, and it was so much easier to turn the question back at him than to answer it.

No sooner had the words left my mouth than I wanted them back. Ron had never been any good at hiding his emotions (none of us had been; I rather suspect it was something common to Gryffindors), and he'd taken Harry's death hard, not surprisingly. His expression seemed almost to fold in on itself, as if he'd been wearing a paper mask to hide his pain and was casting it aside at last, revealing all of his grief at once. I felt vaguely guilty, as if I'd punched him in the stomach, and looked down with the pretense of dabbing some more at my eyes, and eventually I heard his reply, "I still can't believe it's true."

There was a lot of that sentiment going around, and I nodded in agreement, though the gesture was mechanical. I wondered how much of the procession we were expected to watch, before it occurred to me that of course being Harry's best friends we were probably expected to stay until the end. Was it wrong of me to want to go sooner? Was I being a bad friend? A bad Gryffindor? The brave thing to do would be to stick it out no matter what, but I was sick of being brave. I knew what came of being brave: more coffins.

I hadn't been aware of moving all that far away from the grave, but when I looked up to search the crowd for Dumbledore, I saw that we were nearly on the edge of the mass of people. The Hogwarts Headmaster was nowhere to be seen, although I really wasn't surprised by this; there were plenty of people his height in the crowd. What did surprise me was that Ron was no longer at my side, and it took longer than I expected to spot his flame-bright hair some distance to my right. How long had I been absorbed in my own thoughts, I wondered, to not have noticed?

Deciding I'd stayed long enough, I began moving closer to the fringes, and the press of people lessened the farther away from Harry's empty coffin I got. I hadn't realized until I broke free that I'd been feeling a bit claustrophobic, not something that normally happened to me, but with all the other stress I supposed it was to be expected. After a moment spent catching my breath, I spared one last glance for the mourners and prepared to Apparate away from the cemetery, only to be startled when a hand touched my arm.

"I'm sorry, Granger." The words rang hollow in my ears, if only because Draco Malfoy had been apologizing practically every other word for three days now. I was tired of hearing it, tired of thinking, tired of the world in general, the world that had allowed one of my dearest friends to be killed in a single act of bravery.

"Let go of me, Malfoy," I replied. My patience had worn thin, and no matter how many times he said he was sorry, I was convinced, right at that moment, that I would never believe him. He let go, his expression unreadable as always, and I Apparated back to the funeral parlor, where I could catch a bus home to my parents' house. Home, where I could lie in my bed and sleep at last, and with any luck not dream.


	2. You Can't Be Here

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything Harry Potter. He belongs to J.K. Rowling, whom I heartily thank for having created him. I just happen to have been knocked in the head by my muse one evening, and took it upon myself to write this bit of fiction based on the characters she created.

**Author's Note:** I've never written fanfiction before, so you'll have to bear with me. It's rated R for language and possible violence in later chapters, and because at this point I really don't know where exactly the story is going to go. At the moment, I'm letting inspiration guide my hand, though I suspect it's going to take some help. This piece was begun before Book 6 came out, and I've decided not to let that volume influence my take on events as I have them written here. Also, I'd like to thank, in advance, all my online friends who I'm going to pester into reading this, as well as those people I'll more than likely turn to for help when my muse deserts me. And, of course, my husband, who has always been my biggest fan as well as my most honest critic. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I'm going to try, very hard, not to disappoint.

**Chapter 1**

"Crucio!" A voice, out of the darkness, and a bolt of light flashes past me. A scream, someone in pain. Where am I?

It dawns on me then that my eyes are closed, and it takes an effort of will to open them. Misty darkness is all around us, but here and there I can almost pick out a shape, before it fades back into the mist. The voices are indistinct, unclear, unidentifiable, though the Cruciatus Curse is familiar enough by now. I can hear my friends screaming, fighting Voldemort's Death Eaters.

Harry. Where's Harry?

The mist clears abruptly, leaving half of us standing, drawing ragged breaths, awaiting the next attack. I can see Ron's back, and Dumbledore, and Mad-Eye Moody. Where's Harry? There's no sign of him, and all at once I'm too afraid to remember to breathe. Are we winning? How can we be winning without Harry?

I can see bodies on the ground, writhing in pain. I don't think any of them are dead, even the Death Eaters. Surely I would remember the Killing Curse? Dumbledore moves to the side, and I see the Malfoys, Lucius and Draco, and my heart sinks further into my chest. Snape is there, at Draco's side? How can that be right? And then they turn on Lucius Malfoy, but I don't have time to think about that, because as he falls, I can see Harry, and I know, without knowing how I know, that we're too late.

With horrifying clarity, I can see him, facing Voldemort, alone because he had to be bloody _brave_! What it is they say to each other, I'm too far away to hear, but they speak at the same time, and their wands flash, and the light brightens, until all I can see is the pure white brilliance of the light, seconds before oblivion...

A dream. It was just a dream. The same dream I'd had for the last three nights, but a dream all the same. I awoke sitting up, as always, holding my wand, listening for the sound of footsteps. The silence meant I hadn't screamed this time, a point for me, and I reached over to set my wand on the nightstand. Just as I wriggled back under the covers, I heard a noise, a sort of scraping, and held my breath.

My nose itched, though I did my best to ignore it; the room felt suddenly cold, and I shivered before I had a chance to stop myself. Beside my ear was the sound of someone breathing heavily, and I curled my hands into fists under the blankets, cursing myself for putting my wand in so inconvenient a place as the bedside table. I closed my eyes, willing myself to concentrate, to focus, on the off chance I might be able to summon my wand simply by thinking about it.

"Hermione."

At the sound of my name, uttered in breathy ghost-speech, my eyes flew open. I didn't know anything about ghosts, only that we'd had several at Hogwarts, but the last ghost I expected to see was the one in my room. Fumbling for my wand, I held it out with a trembling hand and murmured, "Lumos," the better to see my shade of a visitor, and nearly dropped the wand in my shock.

"Harry?" I sounded incredulous, I _was_ incredulous. I'd been at his funeral, at the burial of the empty coffin, had just moments ago awakened from my recurring nightmare of his demise, and yet there he was, sitting on the end of my bed and looking at me through his ghostly spectacles. "This can't be happening," I told myself, speaking aloud because I needed the extra convincing. "You're still dreaming, Hermione."

"Hermione, please," said the ghost, interrupting in mid-rant the way Harry often did. "We have to talk."

"You're dead, Harry," I informed him, reminding myself, as well. "You can't be here, you just _can't_!" I was trying not to be hysterical, but I was looking at the ghost of my best friend. What was I supposed to be?

"Of course I can. I'm a ghost, aren't I?" His voice sounded the same, or perhaps it was simply because I wanted him to sound the same. He didn't even have the decency to look sorry for being dead.

It bothered me, more than it probably should have. After all, _he_ was the one who was dead, why was _I_ the one getting mad about him not looking sorry? "That's exactly what I mean," I replied, retreating into cold logic. "You're only supposed to haunt places you've visited in life, and I'm fairly certain my bedroom isn't one of those places." At least, the prevailing theory so far as I knew was that ghosts could only haunt places they'd seen while alive. I hadn't made much of an effort to study ghosts, but then I'd never expected to be quite this close to one I was so personally acquainted with.

He laughed at me. "You're right, I've never been here before." Somehow knowing I was right about that didn't make me feel any better.

"What are you doing here, Harry?" I didn't like being laughed at, I never had, and he knew that better than anyone, though he still managed to look as if I'd wounded him with my words.

"I wanted to see you." His reply was lacking a certain sincerity, or maybe it only seemed that way because he was a ghost. I must have looked unconvinced, because he frowned at me. "What? You think I wanted to be dead?"

"What else am I supposed to think?" I shot back at him. "What are any of us supposed to think?"

"Hermione, listen --" he began, but I cut him off.

"No, Harry, _you_ listen. Yes, you did the _brave_ thing, the _noble_ thing, the perfectly _Gryffindor_ thing. You faced Voldemort all by yourself, even though you _knew_ what would happen! There were plenty of other people who were willing to do it, who were more _qualified_ to do it, but it had to be _you_, because _you_ were Harry bloody Potter!" It was unlike me to curse, really, but this was after all an unusual occasion.

"Can't we just talk --" Again he started to say something, and once more I cut him off.

"How _dare_ you sit there and pretend that none of this is your fault?" I was shaking with anger, and the more wounded he looked, the madder I got. "For two years now, you've done nothing but prepare, and you _knew_, all along, that it would end like this! Two _years_, Harry! So don't tell me you didn't want to be dead, because I don't believe it, not for a second." There was a sound in the hall, a footstep, my father coming to check on me, no doubt.

"I'm sorry," he murmured finally, and at last he did look sorry.

I wasn't buying it. "Go away, Harry. Go haunt someone else." I closed my eyes and turned away from him, listening to the footsteps coming closer.

There was a sudden brush of cold air across my cheek, and then a knock at the door, followed by my father's voice, "Hermione? Are you all right?" My parents were concerned, even though they didn't know the whole story. Now that I'd graduated Hogwarts, I didn't have to inform them of every little magical mishap, which was a good thing. I don't think they'd have handled the truth very well, and the last thing I needed was my Muggle parents trying to protect me from things they couldn't possibly understand.

With a sigh, I opened my eyes, but there was no sign that Harry's ghost had been there. I wriggled out from beneath the covers and crossed to the door, but not before another knock sounded. Opening the door, I looked up at my father and said, "I'm fine, Dad."

"Are you sure?" He looked as unconvinced as I must have when Harry was trying to tell me he hadn't planned on dying. "You've barely eaten anything all day. Your mother and I are worried."

"I'm sure," I replied, forcing a small smile. "I'll be fine, honestly." It was enough to reassure him that I could make it through the rest of the night without his attention. Parents are supposed to worry about their children, but I was no longer a child, and when it came to magic I was more equipped to handle things than they were. I allowed him to escort me back to bed, at least, to tuck me in the way he had when I was little, though it was a gesture more for his comfort than mine.

For a time, I lay there in the dark, and it seemed I might cry, but I had no tears left. I'd been crying for days, and I was tired of crying. Crying didn't solve anything. There were so many questions I needed to answer. How had Harry become a ghost? Why? How had he been able to visit me in my room, when ghosts were supposed to be limited to those places they'd seen in life? And why, oh why had he come to _me_?

It was useless to try sleeping with my head so full of questions, and I knew myself well enough not to bother. Reaching once more for my wand, I whispered, "Lumos," and was again rewarded with light. It struck me then, in that precise instant, that I had become disenchanted with the magical world, that magic no longer held any magic for me, and I realized I'd grown up.

Slipping out of bed, I went to sit at my desk, and took out a sheet of parchment, but I paused before reaching for my quill. It would be easier to get over Harry's death, I knew, if I returned to the Muggle way of life I'd left behind, but could I really do it? Give up magic? Would I even be allowed to do such a thing? There was only one person I trusted enough to ask, and once I made my decision I took up my quill and began penning a letter to the Hogwarts Headmaster, Professor Dumbledore.


	3. Witch No More

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything Harry Potter. He belongs to J.K. Rowling, whom I heartily thank for having created him. I just happen to have been knocked in the head by my muse one evening, and took it upon myself to write this bit of fiction based on the characters she created.

**Author's Note:** I've never written fanfiction before, so you'll have to bear with me. It's rated R for language and possible violence in later chapters, and because at this point I really don't know where exactly the story is going to go. At the moment, I'm letting inspiration guide my hand, though I suspect it's going to take some help. This piece was begun before Book 6 came out, and I've decided not to let that volume influence my take on events as I have them written here. Also, I'd like to thank, in advance, all my online friends who I'm going to pester into reading this, as well as those people I'll more than likely turn to for help when my muse deserts me. And, of course, my husband, who has always been my biggest fan as well as my most honest critic. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I'm going to try, very hard, not to disappoint.

**Chapter 2**

The ghost made his appearance again a week later, the day I received my reply. Dumbledore had spoken with Arthur Weasley, and the latter had made an appearance in our home, much to the surprise of my parents. They were still surprised at the number of people with magical talent, and I supposed I couldn't blame them. Besides, there were far nastier things to be surprised about, so I wasn't going to say anything about their reaction when Mr. Weasley Apparated into our living room.

After he'd spent some time interrogating my parents on what life was like as Muggles, I managed to drag him away for a witch-to-wizard chat, which he began by asking, "Hermione, are you sure about this? This giving up magic to go to a Muggle college?"

"Yes, I'm quite sure," I replied confidently. I had, after all, had a week in which to completely convince myself that this was the best thing for myself and my parents. "I really believe that there are a lot of useful Muggle things to study, and the only way I can study them properly is at a university."

"But give up magic?" He made it sound as though I'd be cutting off an arm, and very likely that's how I would feel, doing it.

"It's what I want to do," I said, again confident. "If terrible things are going to happen to the people I care about, I'd rather magic not be involved. I've lived without it before, and I can do it again."

"And I trust you. However, the law is quite clear about wizard-Muggle regulations, and officially, you know, I'm supposed to strip you of your wand." He looked at me for a long moment, and I lifted my chin proudly. I was a Gryffindor, after all. No backing down for me. "But, I rather suspect there's going to be a point down the road in which you might change your mind, and I'm going to let you keep it, because I _do_ trust you. Lock everything away, your wand, your books, all your things, but don't forget about what you've already learned."

I was shocked. "B-but won't you get into trouble, sir?" I had to ask.

He smiled at me. It wasn't the patronizing smile of an adult who's heard a child ask the most ridiculous thing in the world, it was a kind smile, a sympathetic smile. "Don't you worry yourself about me. After all, Muggles are my jurisdiction. Oh, the paperwork has already been filled out, mind you, and it's sitting on my desk awaiting my return. Dumbledore will handle the necessary items with your school, I imagine, he's good at that sort of thing." And here he stuck out his hand for me to shake.

"That's it?" My voice sounded strange in my ears, as I shook his hand automatically. I couldn't believe it, I was free, just like that. "That's all there is to it?"

"Well, what did you expect?" he asked in reply, grinning. "Some special spell or potion to rid you of your powers?" The expression on my face must have told him I had, in fact, thought something of the sort, and he shook his head, becoming serious. "No, that sort of thing is reserved for those people who've committed crimes with their magic among Muggles after swearing not to use it. But I trust you, Hermione. There are a lot of people who've come to trust you over the years, and some of them are working at the Ministry now, even though they aren't in any real power over there. You're a good witch, and I expect you'll be just as good at whatever you decide to study."

I couldn't think of anything to say, to reply to that declaration, and I watched him Apparate away in silence. Apart from Harry and Ron, I hadn't really made all that many friends at Hogwarts, and I couldn't help but wonder who he could possibly be talking about. Harry was dead, and I'd no idea what Ron was doing with his time, now that we'd graduated. Surely _Ron_ couldn't be working at the Ministry? No, that thought was too absurd to seriously consider. Then who?

Harry waited until after I'd gone up to my room to make his appearance, and having seen him once, I wasn't as surprised when he came the second time. "Hermione," he said by way of greeting, looking sad.

"What do you want, Harry?" I asked. I was looking around my room to see if there was anything I'd forgotten to pack away. "I'm a bit busy right at the moment," I added. I wasn't as mad at him as I'd been, but I didn't think I had the patience for his excuses just then.

"Why are you doing this, Hermione? You _love_ magic! You love learning about it, you love doing it, and you're _good_ at it!" I realized he didn't just look sad, he looked hurt.

Sitting down at my desk with a sigh, I blew hair out of my eyes. My bangs needed cutting. "Harry, why are you so concerned about me? You're dead, remember?"

"Because if you go back to being a Muggle, I won't be able to see you any more."

I completely lost my train of thought, forgot to be mad at him, because I was too busy staring through him. "Why should that matter?" I demanded at last. I was afraid of his answer, but I knew I had to hear it, whatever it was.

"It matters, Hermione," the ghost replied, "because you're the reason I'm here."

"What?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing, and yet I knew I didn't sound nearly as incredulous as I probably should have. "What do you mean, _I'm_ the reason you're here?"

He looked at me for a moment, and then whispered solemnly, "I love you, Hermione."

Even though some part of me had suspected his answer, I still gaped at him in utter shock. "Harry!" I exclaimed, once I'd recovered enough of my wits to speak. "How could you do this to me?" We'd known each other for seven years, and for most of that time I'd pined for him in secret while he chased after any number of girls.

"Do what to you?" He was getting angry, I knew that look well enough, and I suppose he'd expected a different reaction, given the strength of will it must have taken him to finally say what he had. "I'm the one who's dead, remember?"

As if I could forget. "That's exactly what I mean!" I was furious. "Why did you wait until now, after you've died and become a ghost, to tell me that?" I wondered how long he had known, and decided he was lucky he was already dead.

"I didn't know how to tell you, before." It looked as though he was getting a clue why I might be upset. About bloody time, I thought. "I don't think I really understood it, before. But when I was facing Voldemort, when we pointed our wands at each other, the only thing I could think of was how much I'd miss you."

I felt the tears on my face before I even noticed I was crying, and I closed my eyes. "Why did you do it, Harry? How could you just leave us behind?"

"I haven't left you, Hermione." Cold air fanned across my cheek, and I opened my eyes to see his hand next to my face, as if he'd tried to touch me. He looked stricken, as if he'd just realized that, being a ghost, he couldn't touch anything.

"Yes, Harry," I whispered, sitting at my desk and pulling a tissue from the box of tissues I kept handy. "You really have."

This time, he didn't need me to shoo him out of the room, he left of his own accord, passing through the wall in his ghostly fashion as I wiped away my tears with the tissue. By leaving the magical world behind, by giving up magic, I'd be giving up Harry, but it was a sacrifice I was prepared to make. Magic could do wonderful things, yes, but I'd seen far too many terrible things. And magic had killed Harry.

Being a ghost, Harry couldn't risk being seen by Muggles. He'd be reported to the Ministry, and there was no telling what they'd do to him if they found out. None of us really trusted the Ministry any more, at least not as a whole. Obviously, there were still some good people working there, but I wasn't about to risk Harry's non-corporeal existence on the chance that someone might be able to help. If Harry hadn't shown himself to Ron, there must have been some reason, and Ron likely would have taken the news harder than I was.

No, whatever Harry was going to do, he was going to have to do it without the help of his friends. Ron had never been able to keep a secret in his life, and I was committed to my decision in leaving the wizarding world behind me. I didn't even dare contact Dumbledore, on the off chance the letter might be intercepted. It was paranoid thinking, I knew, but after the last seven years, paranoia was the lesson I was taking away from Hogwarts.

"Good luck, Harry," I whispered to the empty air of my bedroom. "You're going to need it."


	4. Malfoy the Auror

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything Harry Potter. He belongs to J.K. Rowling, whom I heartily thank for having created him. I just happen to have been knocked in the head by my muse one evening, and took it upon myself to write this bit of fiction based on the characters she created.

**Author's Note:** I've never written fanfiction before, so you'll have to bear with me. It's rated R for language and possible violence in later chapters, and because at this point I really don't know where exactly the story is going to go. At the moment, I'm letting inspiration guide my hand, though I suspect it's going to take some help. This piece was begun before Book 6 came out, and I've decided not to let that volume influence my take on events as I have them written here. Also, I'd like to thank, in advance, all my online friends who I'm going to pester into reading this, as well as those people I'll more than likely turn to for help when my muse deserts me. And, of course, my husband, who has always been my biggest fan as well as my most honest critic. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I'm going to try, very hard, not to disappoint.

**Chapter 3**

"Hermione."

A puff of air gusted across the back of my neck, and I shivered involuntarily. "Harry, please, I'm trying to study." So much for not being able to see me if I went back to the Muggle world. In the four years since his death, Harry had come to me so many times I'd lost count, though he was careful to do so when I was shut away from others, with little chance of being disturbed.

Unfortunately, his visits tended to coincide with my periods of intense study, and his ghostly voice never failed to completely ruin my concentration. "What are you studying for now?" he asked, and I detected a faint whining tone to his voice. "You've only just taken your exams, after all."

With a sigh, I closed the book I was reading and looked at him. He had a rather aggravating tendency to whine if I didn't pay attention to him, and it was pointless trying to ignore him. "I've taken one set of exams, yes, but I've another set coming up next week, Harry, you know that." I was attempting to study both law and medicine at the same time, and it was grueling work that left me with no time to myself.

"I don't understand why you have to push yourself so," Harry complained. "Always an over-achiever, Hermione."

"Of course you don't. You never have." It was true enough, none of my friends had ever understood my desire to learn everything I could. Ron often teased that I should have been Sorted into Ravenclaw, if I loved books so much. "What do you want, Harry?"

"I wanted to see you, that's all. Is that so wrong of me?" He drifted away from me, looking at me with a petulant expression that reminded me of a kicked dog I'd once seen.

I sighed, and was about to reply when I was saved by a knock at my door. My parents had insisted on helping me get my own flat off-campus, so that I could study in private, and since I'd had no time to make friends, there were few people who knew where I lived. "Harry, you have to go," I hissed at him, but he was already gone.

Another knock sounded, and I called out, "I'm coming!" I hurried to the door, running a hand through my hair in a rather useless attempt at restoring some order to it. "Sorry to keep you waiting," I began, though whatever else I was going to say left me the second I opened the door.

There, on my doorstep, in Muggle clothing, was the last person I'd ever expected to see: Draco Malfoy.

"What are you doing here?" I cried in a soft whisper, stepping out of the way and ushering him into my flat. I looked out the door and glanced up and down the hallway to make sure no one had seen me letting a man into my apartment before I closed the door and turned on him. "Have you gone completely mad, Malfoy?"

"No, I haven't gone mad, thank you." He took a look around and sniffed with disdain, and I clenched my hands into fists. If he said one wrong word, I was going to deck him, wizard or no. "Well, you haven't changed, I must say. Same old Granger, up to her ears in books," he said with a smirk.

To my utter dismay, I found myself blushing, but he was right. I'd been so wrapped up in my studies that there were books _everywhere_. Crossing my arms over my chest, I lifted my chin proudly. "What are you _doing_ here, Malfoy?" I asked again. "Haven't you got someone else you can inflict your presence on?"

I don't know what reaction I expected; perhaps I expected one of his insults from our school days, but instead he merely frowned. "Do you really think I'd be here if it wasn't important? Believe me, Granger, you're not exactly the person I expected to be bringing this to, but it was Dumbledore's suggestion." He looked around again, shaking his head. "I cannot believe that you, of all people, would give up magic and go back to this... this..."

"Don't go there, Malfoy," I cut him off. "Trust me when I say that you do _not_ want to go there." I wasn't the least bit surprised that I was angry with him. In the seven years we'd been at school together, we'd never been able to go more than five minutes without getting on each others' nerves. Some things never change.

To further confound me, however, he nodded in agreement. "Right. Look, I don't want to take up your time any more than you want me here, so could you just hear me out, and then I'll go?"

I blinked at him. I'd thought I was done with weirdness in my life, but his presence proved that there was no limit to how strange things could get. I opened my mouth to snap at him, and instead found myself saying, "Would you like some tea, then?"

At least he looked as surprised as I felt, and he shifted uncomfortably. "Oh, well, I suppose that'd be all right." I went into the kitchen, the only room in the flat that was clean, as if I never used it (and with exams I hadn't bothered to eat, really). Malfoy trailed behind me, and apparently felt the need to fill the silence, because he said, "Do you know, I had to use Muggle transportation to come here? Was the only way to come and see you without anyone from the Ministry finding out about it. As it is, if my superiors find out I'm here, I could very well lose my job over it."

"Your job?" I asked, turning away from the stove where I'd just put the teakettle on. "Funny, you never struck me as the sort to need money, Malfoy."

He frowned at me. "As it happens, I don't. But then, I don't suppose you'd have heard anything that's going on now that you've gone back to being a Muggle."

I couldn't decide whether he meant it as an insult or not, so instead I pointed him toward one of the two chairs at my tiny kitchen table. "No, I haven't. As it turns out, I've been rather busy, and even you ought to know that I'm not supposed to have anything to do with magic."

"Yes, I know," he agreed, pulling the chair out and lounging in it gracefully. I stood, leaning against the refrigerator, not wanting to put myself within his reach. "I don't suppose anyone happened to mention to you, before you stopped talking to everyone, that I decided to work for the Ministry?"

That wasn't much of a surprise, since his father had always had Ministry contacts. "Is there a point to this?" I asked, with a yawn.

"Sorry to bore you, Granger," he snapped at me, and I could see something of his temper in his steel-colored eyes. It dawned on me, suddenly, that I was playing with fire by entertaining him; he reminded me of a tiger I'd once seen at the zoo, and he looked at me the same way the tiger had, as if he were trying to decide if I'd make a good meal. "I was trying to break it to you easily, knowing how close you were to Potter and all."

My heart skipped a beat, and if I hadn't been leaning against something I might have found myself on the floor. As it was, my knees were weak, but most of my weight was against the fridge, so I managed to stay upright. "What about Harry?" I heard myself asking. Had the Ministry somehow found out about Harry's ghost? We'd been so careful...

"Nothing. He's dead. I just thought it might come as something of a shock to hear that I took up the job he wanted so badly." I must have looked confused, because he gave me a pitying look. "I'm an Auror," he clarified.

I don't know how I did it, but I made it the three steps to the table, to sink into the chair opposite Malfoy. "You're a what?" I asked, trying to make some sense of what he was telling me.

"An Auror," he repeated. "Potter wanted to be one, remember?"

I remembered, all right. Harry had talked of nothing else since our fifth year at school, when he had lost Sirius. What I didn't understand was why Draco Malfoy, the son of Lucius Malfoy, a sadistic bastard who'd been known to be Voldemort's most faithful Death Eater, would want to become an Auror. "Why?" It was all I could think to ask.

"Look, I don't expect you to understand my reasons, just as I never expected you to understand why I turned against my father in the first place. The only one who ever understood was Severus, and not even he knew just how obsessed Father was right before the end." He shook his head, looking down at his hands, and I noticed there was a scar on the back of his left hand.

There had always been rumors about Malfoy at school, about his father's connection to Voldemort, and how Draco was expected to become a Death Eater along with Lucius. Certainly, he'd been a slimy, obnoxious prat at Hogwarts, but I'd never really considered him to be dangerous in those days. Looking at him now, four years later, I realized that none of us had really known anything about him. He looked so much like his father it was frightening, and I wondered if he ever used his name to intimidate people the way Lucius Malfoy had.

"Why were you apologizing, after Harry died?" I asked him. I'd never really cared what the apology was for, because I hadn't wanted anything to do with him by that point.

"Because it was my fault," he replied, looking at me. "If I'd been faster, if I'd been better, if I hadn't let my father distract me..." His voice trailed off, and he shook his head before continuing, "I was supposed to save him, Hermione. I could have saved him."

I was horrified. All this time, I'd never thought he was even _capable_ of feeling guilt, and yet, here he was, in my kitchen, confiding his deepest, darkest secrets to me. It was creepy. "Oh, God," I whispered, and was saved the burden of saying any more by the fortuitous whistling of the teakettle. Only, to my absolute shame and disgust, when I tried to stand up I ended up falling right back into my chair. "Bollocks!" I swore.

That, at least, elicited a small snort of laughter from my guest, and he pulled himself out of the pit of despair he was wallowing in to get up and look down at me. "I didn't think you knew how to swear. Where do you keep your cups? And the tea?" Was he _concerned_?

"The cups are over the sink, and the tea is in that tin next to the stove." A thought struck me, and I couldn't quite suppress a smile as I asked, "Do you even _know_ how to make tea, Malfoy?"

"'Course I do, what do you take me for?" he replied irritably.

"I take you for a spoiled, selfish prat who grew up with house elves waiting on him hand and foot," I shot back, but I was over my anger, and couldn't help the giggle that escaped.

"As well you should," he agreed, finishing with the tea and carefully carrying the cups back to the table. "Merlin, but I was a pain in the arse back when we were in school, wasn't I?"

"The biggest," I assured him, with another giggle. I'd gone mad, I was convinced of it, and decided I was hallucinating the entire scenario. Shaking my head, I looked at him seriously. "Now then, would you mind telling me why you've suddenly decided to appear out of the blue? Surely you can't have come all this way just to confess that it's your fault Harry died."

He looked pained, and I immediately felt guilty. "No, don't take that the wrong way, I don't mean to imply that it really is your fault," I rushed to explain. "I still have nightmares about that night. There was nothing you could have done, that _any_ of us could have done. Harry made the decision to face Voldemort on his own, knowing the consequences. He's the one who chose to die, Malfoy. Don't blame yourself."

I hadn't told anyone about my nightmares before, but it had slipped out, and now I found myself rather relieved to be talking about them. Malfoy looked rather surprised, but surely we were reaching some sort of truce, or at the very least it was only fair for him to feel as creeped-out by the little bonding moment we seemed to be having as I was.

"Thank you," he said suddenly, and there was sincerity in his voice even if the dangerous look hadn't really left his eyes. There was an awkward silence between us for a few minutes, which he finally broke. "You asked why I was here."

"I'm aware of that." I hadn't forgotten a single word I'd said, and somehow the tone he'd used to remind me of my own question set off my anger all over again. "Does this mean you're finally going to tell me?"

He glanced down at his cup, and then reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a small glass vial. I stared at it for a moment before I realized it was half-full of blood. "I need your help. I don't trust anyone at the Ministry with this. You wouldn't have heard about the problems we've been having lately, even if you _were_ getting the Prophet, but things are pretty bad. Voldemort's death has caused all sorts of chaos, and there are Dark creatures running loose all over. Three weeks ago, I came across the first in a series of deaths, Muggle deaths, and I have reason to believe a vampire's involved."

"A vampire?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Surely he had plenty of other contacts he could go to with something like this? "What do you need me for?"

"After the third killing, I started research for an undercover assignment. So far, the Ministry and the Muggle government has managed to keep this quiet, but it's only a matter of time before it goes public. Two nights ago, I was staking out a Muggle bar that we thought was a likely target. Sure enough, the thing was there, and I managed to keep anyone from being killed, but it attacked me and damn near killed me." His expression was grave. "I was set up. Someone inside the Ministry is feeding this thing information, and I was lucky all I got was a scratch. It didn't get away clean, though, because I managed to get this sample of its blood. Dumbledore suggested you because you're studying medicine. You have access to a lab, don't you?"

I knew at once what he meant. "You want me to analyze this for you," I said, slowly taking the vial from his hand and holding it up to the light. "To make sure it's really a vampire that you're dealing with."

"Exactly." He sat back with the expression of a cat that's just caught a really fat mouse. "I know you want to leave the wizarding world behind, but I don't have anyone else I can ask. Whoever it is that's in league with this thing, they won't suspect I've gone to you because of our history, and because you're on record as having broken all your wizarding ties."

"All right, Malfoy. I'll run some tests. How can I get in touch with you?" Again, I was convinced I'd gone mad. I couldn't possibly be sane and agree to what he was asking. It was too surreal.

"The bar I told you about, the one I had to stake out." As Malfoy recited the instructions on how to reach him, I happened to glance toward the doorway leading into the kitchen, and for a split second I could have sworn I saw Harry's ghost hanging there, looking disgusted. Then I blinked, and he was gone.


	5. Confrontations

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything Harry Potter. He belongs to J.K. Rowling, whom I heartily thank for having created him. I just happen to have been knocked in the head by my muse one evening, and took it upon myself to write this bit of fiction based on the characters she created.

**Author's Note:** I've never written fanfiction before, so you'll have to bear with me. It's rated R for language and possible violence in later chapters, and because at this point I really don't know where exactly the story is going to go. At the moment, I'm letting inspiration guide my hand, though I suspect it's going to take some help. This piece was begun before Book 6 came out, and I've decided not to let that volume influence my take on events as I have them written here. Also, I'd like to thank, in advance, all my online friends who I'm going to pester into reading this, as well as those people I'll more than likely turn to for help when my muse deserts me. And, of course, my husband, who has always been my biggest fan as well as my most honest critic. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I'm going to try, very hard, not to disappoint.

**Chapter 4**

"I cannot believe you're going through with this!"

For the first time, I was glad that Harry was non-corporeal. Judging by the expression on his face, he was mad enough to throw something at me, although the insane part of me that had agreed to analyze Malfoy's blood sample also found Harry's anger mildly amusing. "What is it that bothers you more, Harry?" I asked, turning around to face the ghost with a hand on my hip. "Is it my going to a bar in the middle of the night, or the fact that I'm doing it because Malfoy asked me to?"

"You heard what he said, that this thing has _killed_ people! Muggles, just like you're _supposed_ to be! If he really _is_ an Auror, he should know better than to put you in this kind of danger!"

I glared at him, and reached through him for my purse. "I can take care of myself, Harry. Now, why don't you run along and vanish into thin air like a good little ghost so you don't scare any Muggles?" It was cruel of me, I knew, but after four years of his whining I was beginning to get tired of my ghostly baby-sitter. Having him hanging about as a ghost had helped me overcome my grief at his death rather quickly, and I was starting to wonder if he was going to haunt me for the rest of my life. This was what seven years of repressed feelings had done to us. Lucky us.

As I left my flat, I saw him hanging in the air, still looking as furious as a ghost could look, and I closed the door without another thought. I'd heard of the bar where Malfoy wanted to meet me, and my everyday attire was hardly suitable for such a place, so I'd had to ask the girl across the hall for something to wear. Elizabeth, her name was, and she was the closest thing I had to a friend. I didn't feel terribly comfortable borrowing clothes from her, but she'd seemed happy enough to help, and I had to admit she'd done better at picking out an outfit for me than I would have.

The bar was in the college district, so not all that far from my flat, which was a good thing, because the shoes I was wearing were killing my feet. I never wore heels, but I figured if Malfoy could learn to blend in with Muggles, the last thing he needed was me showing up in my lab coat and blowing his cover. So, Elizabeth had loaned me a pair of black jeans that fit a bit snugly, and a flowing silk blouse that was crimson-colored, as well as the low-cut boots with spiked heels, and as I set out down the street I felt nothing at all like myself.

I'd also borrowed a short leather jacket from her, although it wasn't the slightest bit warm in the night air. What Harry was so worried about, I couldn't begin to guess, unless he knew something I didn't and he was just keeping it from me. Harry was the only one who knew I'd been trying to learn wandless magic in our seventh year, and I wondered if he still remembered it. Of all the witches and wizards I'd ever met, Dumbledore was the only one I'd ever seen cast a spell without a wand.

I'd asked McGonagall about it once, and she'd told me that it could take centuries for a wizard to learn even a simple spell like Leviosa without a wand, but it was possible. Even Voldemort had been helpless without his wand, even though with it he'd been one of the most powerful wizards of our time. Still, there were always things to be discovered about the wizarding world, and I'd decided at the beginning of our last year at school that by the end of the year I would know how to cast at least one spell without using my wand.

Harry was the only one who knew I'd succeeded in my goal, but not even he knew how far I'd stretched myself. I'd wanted to keep it a secret, perhaps because some part of me already knew that Harry was going to take the Gryffindor way out, and after he died there was no one I trusted enough to tell, especially with my decision to return to Muggle life. It was as if I had a secret weapon, and I felt a lot less helpless as I entered the bar, my head high as I searched for the table Malfoy had said he would be seated at.

With his head bowed, his silver-blond hair was easy enough to spot, and I made my way over to him, ignoring the interested stares I was attracting from around the room. "Is this seat taken?" I asked, tapping on the table with a forefinger to get his attention.

Malfoy's gaze snapped up at once, and again I was reminded of a dangerous, caged animal. It was unsettling to have him look at me, and I decided to stare at the table instead of his face. "No," he replied at last, his voice containing hints of the danger I saw in his eyes. "Please, have a seat."

I dropped into the chair gratefully, still not looking at him, settling my purse in my lap, and I left it up to him to decide whether or not we were attracting any undue attention. "What should I call you?" I asked, surprising myself by not sounding as nervous as I suddenly felt.

"Drake," was his reply. I could feel him looking at me again, apparently satisfied that no one unusual was paying us any mind. "Do you have what I asked for?"

I nodded, unzipping my purse and retrieving several folded-up documents. "There were definitely some anomalies in the sample you gave me, but I don't have the equipment to determine whether your suspicions are correct," I murmured, leaning forward to pass him the papers. "Those are the results, however, so maybe the data will tell you more than it did me."

He was silent for a moment, and I glanced up to see him studying the papers with an intense frown. Abruptly, he folded them up and shoved them into his shirt pocket, getting to his feet and holding out his hand. "Come on. We have to get out of here."

For precisely three seconds, I wondered if I was insane enough to argue with him. One look up into his eyes convinced me I wasn't, and I allowed him to pull me to my feet. "What's wrong?" I asked, craning my neck to look behind me as he led me toward the door.

"Don't look back," he hissed at me, his arm going around my waist. I started to protest, but he leaned close to whisper in my ear, "It's here, and it's seen us. If you want to stay alive, I suggest you follow my lead and don't argue with me."

We were crossing the threshold now, leaving the bar behind, and I felt a surge of panic as I realized we were exposed, in the open street, which was suddenly deserted. "How --?" I began to ask, but I didn't get past the first word before Malfoy cut me off.

"I don't think it's recognized me," he said in a breathless whisper. I looked up at his face, and there was no sign of fear at all. His eyes glittered, and I realized that this dangerous way of life actually appealed to him. We rounded a corner, found ourselves on another deserted street, and my stomach flipped over. Everything felt wrong, but I didn't know how to pass this information along without being silenced again.

All at once, before I knew what was happening, we'd stopped under a lamppost, and the expression on Malfoy's face was terrifying, because it exactly mirrored the expression on Harry's when he'd faced Voldemort. He leaned toward me, and I brought up a hand, pushing against his chest. "What are you doing?" I squeaked.

"Don't look," he whispered, ignoring my attempt to push him away and bringing his face so close to mine our noses were almost touching. "Close your eyes, Hermione, and count to one hundred, slowly."

I shut my eyes and began to count, slowly, feeling goose bumps rise on my arms. I felt his lips brush across mine, and very nearly opened my eyes then, but a heartbeat later it was over, and he had moved away from me, leaving me alone in the light. The very thought of Malfoy kissing me, even the brush of lips as he'd just done, was revolting, and it took all the willpower I had not to turn and flee blindly into the night, but there was an almost tangible presence that kept me rooted to the spot.

I heard voices, dimly, as if I'd been surrounded by an invisible wall and sounds were bouncing off it instead of reaching me. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. A flash of light in the darkness on the other side of my eyelids. Thirty-nine. Forty. A faint cry, like a scream smothered by a pillow. Sixty-seven. The acrid smell of sulfur. Eighty-two. A howl.

I'd reached ninety-five before I heard Malfoy speak. "All right, Granger. It's over."

Opening my eyes, I took in Malfoy's tattered appearance, but there was no sign of the creature, and I realized it must have escaped again. I was about to ask when I noticed that there was blood seeping between his fingers where he pressed them against the right side of his neck. "You're wounded," I said, taking a step toward him.

There was murder in his eyes, and his expression stopped me cold. "I'll live," he spat out through gritted teeth.

"Don't be stupid, Malfoy. You're barely standing on your feet, and there's no way you'll be able to Apparate in this condition." I'd seen enough injuries in my days at Hogwarts to know a serious one when I saw it. I stepped toward him again, glaring at him, remembering how humiliated I'd felt in the seconds after he'd kissed me.

"Spare me your concern, Granger. I should think you'd be happy to see me join your boyfriend." This was the Malfoy I'd known in my school days, the only thing missing was his calling me 'Mudblood', and I expected that would be next.

His scorn pierced through my self-control, and I stalked up to him and slapped him across the face, hard. "You stuck-up, arrogant git!" I hissed at him. "I go out of my way to do you a favor, against my better judgment, nearly get myself killed in the process, and this is the thanks I get? Well, to hell with you, Malfoy! If you ever so much as _think_ of darkening my doorway again, I swear to God you're going to wish you'd never met me!"


	6. Same Old Ron?

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything Harry Potter. He belongs to J.K. Rowling, whom I heartily thank for having created him. I just happen to have been knocked in the head by my muse one evening, and took it upon myself to write this bit of fiction based on the characters she created.

**Author's Note:** I've never written fanfiction before, so you'll have to bear with me. It's rated R for language and possible violence in later chapters, and because at this point I really don't know where exactly the story is going to go. At the moment, I'm letting inspiration guide my hand, though I suspect it's going to take some help. This piece was begun before Book 6 came out, and I've decided not to let that volume influence my take on events as I have them written here. Also, I'd like to thank, in advance, all my online friends who I'm going to pester into reading this, as well as those people I'll more than likely turn to for help when my muse deserts me. And, of course, my husband, who has always been my biggest fan as well as my most honest critic. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I'm going to try, very hard, not to disappoint.

**Chapter 5**

CRACK

Someone's Apparated, close by. I can't see. Why can't I see?

CRACK

Closer, the sound is closer. I remember why everything looks blurry, there was a flash of light... Harry!

I can't recall at what point I've dropped to my knees and curled up on myself, but I lift my head, straining to see past the spots left in my vision from the brightness when Harry and Voldemort faced each other. It takes longer than I'm comfortable with, and there are more of the unsettling sounds of Apparition, but when my vision clears I realize the sounds are teams of Aurors, Apparating in, and Dark Wizards trying to Apparate away, without success.

I can't see Harry. Where's Harry? What happened to him?

I look around wildly, trying to remember where I saw him last, and catch sight of the incline where he was facing Voldemort, but there is no sign of either of them. The grass is charred and blackened, and a rock nearby has scorch marks on it, but there's not so much as a singed hair of Harry or his greatest foe. They are gone, both of them.

CRACK

The last sound awakened me, and the instant my eyes opened I knew the sound wasn't a remnant from my sleeping mind. Harry was already there, faintly luminescent in the darkness, but he said nothing, and the noises from the living room carried clearly. Someone was in my flat, and whoever it was had Apparated in.

I slid my hand under my pillow, my fingers closing around the handle of my wand. There were no whispered voices, and I remembered only hearing the sound of one entrance, so I was fairly certain that whoever was prowling my living room was alone. Getting up out of bed was easily enough; I hadn't bothered with the covers, nor undressing, so modesty wasn't an issue.

Creeping to the doorway, I shielded my eyes with my hand before moving my wand and whispering, "Lumos Maximus." The sudden light was near-blinding after the darkness, but I'd been prepared for it, whereas the man near my desk was taken completely off-guard.

He was half-crouched behind my desk, wand at the ready, poised as if ready to sweep a spell across the room at the slightest provocation, and very likely he was. "Hermione." It was all he said, all he needed to say, as his voice, his face, his red hair were all familiar to me.

"Ron," I murmured. It was followed immediately by, "Nox Minimus," to my wand, allowing the light to dim halfway, to a more reasonable level. "Ronald Weasley, what on earth are you doing here?" I hadn't seen him since Harry's funeral.

"I'm with the Ministry now, Hermione." He sounded better, he sounded stable. He _looked_ better. "I'm in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, conducting an internal investigation of one of our Aurors."

"Draco Malfoy." Curiouser and curiouser. One of his eyebrows lifted briefly, confirming my suspicions, and I lowered my wand to my side, still glowing. "Internal investigation? Does that make you an Auror as well, then?" He nodded his head in answer, and I sighed. "Is there a reason why you felt you had to sneak in here in the middle of the night?"

"One of Malfoy's contacts lives across the hall from you," he replied. Official-sounding, his speech, as if we hadn't been the best of friends for seven years. "The nature of my investigation requires that he not be aware of my movements." A pause, and then he remarked, "I see you still have your wand."

I felt my cheeks reddening at his offhanded comment, and I rubbed at the left one with my free hand. "Nox," I muttered, flipping the light switch to turn on the lights as my wand went dark. "Would you care for some tea, Ron?" I asked, as I couldn't think of anything else to say.

"If that makes you more comfortable with my being here, Hermione, then by all means." His reply was accompanied by a small nod, and it wasn't until he said something that I realized I _wasn't_ comfortable with his dispassionate scrutiny. If anything, it was even more unnerving than the dangerous, predatory look I'd seen in Malfoy's eyes; there was a cool detachment in Ron's gaze that spoke of a deep commitment to putting away wizarding criminals. It was not a look I'd ever seen there before, and I didn't like it.

I led the way into the kitchen and pointed him to the same chair Malfoy had sat in mere days ago. Taking my time preparing the teakettle, I used it as a cover to observe my old friend in silence. There were unfamiliar lines in his face, a more determined set to his jaw. This Ron would likely be able to listen to thirty renditions of 'Weasley is Our King' without batting so much as an eyelash. "What's happened to you?" I finally asked him.

One of his eyebrows lifted in faint surprise. "I've no idea what you're talking about, Hermione. I'm the same old Ron."

"No, Ron, you're not." As with Malfoy, I was reluctant to put myself within his reach, so again I leaned against the fridge. "It's in your eyes, the way you walk, even in the way you sit."

The faintest of smiles lurked at the corners of his mouth, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Of course. I should have known better that to try to fool you, Hermione. You always could see right through me." Unsettling as the trace of a smile was, his expression was even more so when it faded, and he looked down at the table. "We thought it was over, when our side won, but we were wrong, Hermione."

"I never thought it was over." It wasn't something I'd ever thought about at length, and certainly I'd never _talked_ about it, but there the words were, just the same, and they kept coming. "Voldemort was the enemy, yes, he was the big bad guy, he stood for everything we'd been fighting against ever since we'd met Harry. Cut off the head, and the body will die, that was what we'd all hoped for, in our hearts, but I knew, in my head, that thinking that way was just going to lead to disappointment."

I had more to say, but something flickered in Ron's eyes that stopped me cold, and I was glad, suddenly, of the distance between us. The tea kettle chose that exact moment to emit a high-pitched whistle, and I flinched at the sound, turning away from my guest in the process.

"All right there, Hermione?" Ron's voice, and while there was some concern in it, it was very far away, and I couldn't bring myself to look back at his face.

A deep breath, followed by an exhale, and I willed myself back to rights. "Fine." I sounded a great deal more composed than I felt, which was some small comfort, and I pushed away from the fridge to return to the stove, reaching for the tin where I kept my tea. "Still two lumps and a dash of cream, Ron?" He'd changed a great deal in four years, but I was fairly sure the way he took his tea was minor enough to remain constant.

"Right." The confirmation felt like a small victory, against the rising tide of foreboding that was waging war within me. He hadn't changed entirely, not if he still took his tea the same way. A ridiculous thing to feel good about, but I couldn't help it.

Turning around, I managed a smile that I hoped didn't look too forced, and carried the teacups to the table. With the tea made, my excuse to remain out of reach had vanished, so I joined him at the table, trying not to look uncomfortable. "So. What was it you wanted to ask me about Malfoy?"

Ron sipped gingerly at his tea, oblivious to any sign of discomfort I might have been displaying. I'd been counting on it, another constant from our school days. "I was assigned to Malfoy's case when it was opened two weeks ago, after he started skipping training sessions, slacking off on his duties," he began, looking back up at me. "My superiors are worried he's thinking about changing sides, and I can't say I blame them." There was a note in his voice that was familiar, but hardly comforting, a note that spoke volumes of his distrust of Malfoy. I could hardly blame him.

"Malfoy told me he's been looking into a series of vampire killings that the Ministry is trying to cover up," I informed him, meeting his gaze in spite of how much I wanted to look away. "He brought me a blood sample to analyze, and from what I could tell, it was genuine. While I had nothing to compare it to, there were definitely some anomalies that looked consistent with most prevailing theories about vampirism."

He was staring at me, and I realized I'd slipped into doctor-speak without thinking. "I'm sorry, I forgot you aren't familiar with Muggle medical terms," I began, attempting an apology.

"No, it's all right, I actually got most of it." I must have looked as stunned as I felt, because his expression changed, became almost wistful. "It's just that you sounded so much like _you_, Hermione. I've missed you, you know." His hand reached for mine, across the table, and I was frozen in place, unable to move, to pull away.

Exactly why I didn't want him touching me, I couldn't say, but I was betrayed by my own body, sitting there immobile. His hand was warm, almost feverishly so, and he took mine gently, lifting my fingers away from the edge of the cup and enfolding them with his own. I was trapped in his gaze, and some part of me backed away from what I saw in his eyes, though thankfully it didn't seem to register with him. "Ron, I--" I began, only to have my voice crack on the second syllable, and I cursed myself for being such a damn _woman_.

It was enough to break the spell, however, and he let go of my hand, sitting back and turning his attention to the tea in front of him. My hand dropped uselessly to the table, and I stared at it while concentrating on controlling my breathing. "Ron," I repeated, finally, when I was sure my voice would remain steady, "why come to me? About Malfoy, I mean?"

"I wanted to warn you." I could feel the weight of his eyes on me, but I didn't look up, and he sighed. "Just... be careful, Hermione. Please? Malfoy's dangerous, there's no telling what he's capable of, and I don't want you getting hurt."

In spite of myself, I could feel my lips curling into the faintest of smiles. "I don't think that will be a problem, Ron. We didn't exactly part on good terms, last time he was here."

"About your wand..." That got my attention, and I finally looked up at his face, met his gaze, boldly. "I won't tell anyone that you still have it, if that's what you're worried about. I'm not here to make trouble for you, Hermione." Again, there was that smile on his lips that didn't reach his eyes. "I'm glad to see you still have it, is all. Maybe, someday, you'll come back to the wizarding way of life."

"I've moved on, Ron," I told him, firmly. "Malfoy's visit, you dropping in, these are exceptions to the normal routine I live by. I made my choice, four years ago, and I stand by it now."

He stood up so fast I was afraid, for half a second, that he was going to hit me, or worse. Instead, he simply turned away from me, taking a step toward the kitchen door. "Hoping you'll have a change of heart won't kill me, though, will it?" I felt a pang, in my chest, at his words, but said nothing, and he took another step toward the door. "Take care of yourself, Hermione." I expected another step, but there was none, just the too-familiar (even after four years) CRACK of Apparition, followed by a slight whooshing of air rushing to fill the Ron-shaped void he'd left behind.

Leaving the teacups on the table, I got up and made my way back to the bedroom. Harry was there, his shade hovering to one side of my bed. "I told you--" he began.

"Don't," I snapped, cutting him off with a ferocity I'd never used with Harry before. "Not now, Harry, not ever. Don't you _ever_ say those words to me." He looked shocked, and hurt, and tried the kicked-puppy look on me, but I turned away, curling up on the bed. I waited, eyes closed, until I was sure he was gone, before finally letting loose the tears that had been waiting since halfway through Ron's visit. I wasn't sure whether I was mourning the loss of his innocence, or the loss of our friendship, or something else entirely, but I was mourning _something_. At some point I left off crying in favor of praying, not for Ron, or even myself, but to simply be left alone, forgotten, the way I'd wanted to be when I walked away from being a witch four years ago.

Sleep, when it finally came, was blessedly dreamless.


End file.
